


don't trust the air you breathe

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just before "Station Management" - Carlos receives a warm welcome from the Sheriff's Secret Police, which isn't so much warm as it is painful, and Cecil comes to his rescue, which isn't so much a rescue as it is an exercise in string-pulling.  (AU because in this fic, Telly isn't so much the barber who cut Carlos's hair as he is a scapegoat for a much more complicated problem.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't trust the air you breathe

**Author's Note:**

> yo this is kind of weird and it doesn't fit into canon like a puzzle piece, but i sort of smashed it in there with complete disregard anyway. because why not?
> 
> once again, cecil is not all that innocent.

            There are hands on him.  They're warm and hard and covered by thick gloves, welder's gloves, and they drag him across the asphalt with no gentleness.  Carlos tries to remember something from before this, but it all just comes up blank, searing hot in his mind.  It feels like he has a concussion, without the concussion itself.

            Night Vale is always so _hot_.  There's a heat wave scorching the country, he knows, but right here in Night Vale it's so much more noticeable.  He thinks it might be the fact that his face is pressed into the hot asphalt, each bump and plane of his face a bright hot point of pain.  His head feels swollen and heavy.  Distantly, he hears footsteps leaving him, walking out to the desert, fading out of earshot quickly once the people leaving hit the sand.

            His phone is in his pocket.  Carlos finds enough coherency to thank God for small miracles, his hand working across the pavement to reach for it.  He doesn't even know who he should call; his list of contacts in Night Vale after only two months here is shockingly short, and half of his scientists have already packed up and left.

            Vibrations run through his body and it takes Carlos two whole minutes to realize that it's his phone, buzzing in his pocket.  It takes another minute before he can finally get his hand wrapped around it, pulling it out.  He can't move his left arm; every attempt just leaves him groaning in pain.

            "Carlos," Cecil's voice is saying, staticky through the shit reception, and Carlos tries to drag his voice closer.  "I know you said not to call you all the time, but _this_ time-"

            "No," Carlos murmurs, coughing desert dust from his lungs.  He wants to say more.  He wants to ask why Cecil didn't _warn_ him, _really_ warn him; he wants to ask what the hell is _wrong_ with this town; he wants to ask when the next bus out of here is coming, because _this_...

            "Carlos," Cecil says again, but his voice is serious, not full of flighty giddiness.  "What is it?"  He hears Cecil imitate his breathing, only for a second, and then he says, "Tell me where you are."

            "I don't," Carlos gasps.  "I don't know.  Cecil, I..."  _Should have listened_ , is what he wants to say, but he can't.  He can't say it, he can't admit to the bizarre radio host that calls him with random tourism information about Night Vale, who called his hair perfect, called _him_ perfect before he'd even _met_ him...  "I don't know."

            "Which arm is dislocated?" he hears Cecil ask.  He thinks about the pain in his left arm, how it feels swollen and flame hot.  " _Carlos_ ," Cecil snaps, his voice tight, cutting through the daze.

            "Left," he says, "My left arm - why-"

            Cecil exhales.  Carlos can hear his keys jangling.  "Okay.  Near the abandoned mine shaft, you'll - you're fine.  You'll be fine, Carlos, just breathe.  If you have a seizure," he adds with a veneer of nonchalance, "Make sure to lie on your side."

            He hangs up abruptly, leaving Carlos to lie on the back road by himself.  It's quiet; there's the ever-present, distant sound of helicopter blades cutting the air, the sound of a hawk crying near town, and the sound of sand shifting in the low wind.  It's achingly hot, but his arm is starting to go numb so he decides he shouldn't complain.  Cecil is coming, after all.  He's the only one who knows all of Night Vale's intimate secrets and he, Carlos is sure, is the only one who can help him now.

            "Just waiting for my ride," he rasps to the empty air, just in case the secret police are listening.  He knows that they're more likely than not watching.

            The minutes fade away after a time.  Gravel digs into Carlos's face, but he can't bring himself to move, feeling far away from the situation.  It's nice.  He lets himself linger in a painful haze of heat and fire, listening to all the ambient noise that fills his ears.  It's all so very far away.

            It takes too long for Carlos to realize he can hear the sound of an approaching car, and by the time he's realized it, he can't even think to drag himself off the road in case it isn't Cecil.  Then, there are hands on him once again, not covered in thick gloves, and Carlos lets out the painful breath he's been holding for who knows how long when he hears Cecil's voice above him.

            "My poor Carlos," he's murmuring, and honestly, Carlos could care less what Cecil wants to call him right now; the only thing that matters is that he's using all his care to roll Carlos onto his back without hurting him.  His head is lifted up and bright lights flare up in his vision as real agony swells, and he grabs Cecil's shirt, screwing his eyes shut.  "I tried to warn you," the voice above him continues without blame, "I tried to...  No, it doesn't matter.  Carlos, are you conscious?"

            "Yes," Carlos hisses out through his teeth, "Against my better judgment."

            "Mmhm, I know.  It hurts.  It's more of a welcome thing, this time around."  Carlos feels suddenly weightless, Cecil's wiry arms under his back and knees, and it's almost a shock to realize that the average-sized Cecil is managing to lift him up, given that he's got more muscle and more fat.  Some things, though, are just not worth investigating, not right now, so Carlos just closes his eyes and tries to make himself easy enough to carry, bending his neck forward when Cecil puts him in the passenger seat of the car so he won't beam himself upside the head.  It's only when Cecil is climbing in to the driver's side that Carlos notices how very nondescript the car they're in is.  He doesn't think its Cecil's.

            "Try not to think," Cecil says, his tone almost glib save for the undercurrent of urgency running through it.  "Thinking can trigger seizures.  Just relax."

            Carlos wants to explain to Cecil that this is Not Okay, and his nonchalance isn't a plus here, but all he can think about is the hot rods of pain shooting from his dislocated arm and the agonizing migraine building in the back of his head, and the way even trying to breathe through his nose makes him gasp.  "Not thinking," Carlos says instead, "At all.  Just... hurting."

            "Yeah," Cecil says, and there's the strange sincerity Carlos has heard in Cecil's voice time and again on the radio, "It does that."

            Cecil obeys all traffic laws during the drive, taking turns cautiously and keeping the car just under forty-five at all times.  The radio is off, which Carlos clings to as the one weird thing he can think about without hurting himself; the fact that Cecil, the host of one of the most listened to shows in Night Vale, doesn't listen to the radio when he's not on it.  He wonders if that's important.  Should it be important?

            "Deep breaths, Carlos," Cecil murmurs.  "I'll take care of you."

            "Okay," Carlos replies, trying to do just that, even though it feels like his ribs are on fire with every breath he takes.  Cecil turns up the air conditioner, hums a little, and then falls silent, leaving Carlos to just breath the cool canned air and try not to move around in any way.

            By the time Cecil parks the car, Carlos's muscles are tightly wound with stress, his breath coming in short pants.  Cecil reaches over, pressing the back of his hand to Carlos's forehead as though checking his temperature.  Carlos laughs at it, because it's so protective, so overwhelmingly motherly, and he just can't place it to the partially mad, slightly inhuman Cecil, the guy with the sharp reptilian teeth and the marking on his forehead, who stared at him when they first met and just _smiled_ when he was told that he needed to evacuate the radio station.  "Who would be here to talk sweetly to all of you, out there?" he'd heard Cecil say, his voice dark and warped, as though he really were the voice of Night Vale, giving Carlos his one last warning to get out before it was too late.

            "It's too late," he says, dazed, hysteria welling up in his chest like a zeppelin waiting for someone to light a match.  Cecil is helping him out of the car, but he can't stop shaking, laughter failing to come as his airway closes off.  Cecil grabs him, holds him firmly as he sits on the edge of the seat, and it's so goddamned ridiculous how _fucked up_ this town really is, and so is how Cecil can just hold on to him even though he feels live-wire, clogged up, all helium.

            "Don't think about anything," Cecil's voice says, his mouth moving almost out of time with his words until Carlos manages to come back to himself to realize he'd blacked out.  He's slumped against the car now, the passenger door open and blocking them from street view.  "I told you, thinking will only make it worse.  Just listen to me, it'll all be _fine_."

            Cecil's voice really is sweet, and Carlos knows it.  It's like honey - _sonorous_ , he thinks, and then he realizes he can't think and so he just focuses on Cecil's monologue, the words sliding together as Cecil once again picks him up and carries him inside.  He doesn't know if he starts to shake again, but he knows he passed out when he wakes up to find himself lying on his side on a bed, in a room dressed in late evening shadows.  It's a startlingly normal room, with photos framed on the dresser and blue sheets on the bed.  It's so unlike Cecil that he has to wonder if this is even his place.  It's definitely not his car that they used.

            "Stop it," Cecil says from the doorway, and Carlos manages to blink his eyes into some semblance of focus as he fixes them on the shape in the doorway.  Without his glasses, everything is too blurry to really make out.  "You need at least a couple of hours of sleep before you start using that big, incautious brain of yours."  He's balanced between his radio voice and the one he uses off the air, leaving drawling messages on Carlos's phone asking if he'd caught the show, or if there was anything he needed help finding, or, hey, did you see this -

            " _Seriously_ ," Cecil says, "If you don't stop trying to _unravel_ everything, you're going to be in quite a bit more trouble than you already are.  Just..."  He walks across the room and sits on the bed.  Carlos is too tired to flinch away from the close proximity, and he can't help but feel somehow reassured when Cecil once again puts the back of his hand to his forehead.  "No fever, no infection, so... you're probably fine.  With all those pain receptors you've got, this can't be fun for you.  But don't think about that," he says almost hurriedly, clearly seeing Carlos's brain working before Carlos can even realize it, "Just think about... something _else_."

            "Is this your place?" Carlos rasps, because that's all he can think to say.

            Cecil chuckles and pets Carlos's hair, and Carlos lets him for a few seconds because it's a comforting gesture, one sorely needed after his run in with the secret police.  Cecil pulls away before he can tell him he's overstayed his welcome, which is nice.  "No, not really," he says, quietly, "It's just a place.  Don't worry about it.  Don't worry about anything.  Everything is going to be perfectly fine, my poor, poor Carlos.  They've said hello, they've made their _point_ \- and now everything is back to normal for them, and after you sleep, it'll be back to normal for _you_."

            Carlos drifts with Cecil's voice, listening to the rise and fall of its cadence, taking in the steady, pleasing tone as though he's being read a bedtime story.  He hears Cecil say something about his hair, but he doesn't think about it.  He feels something cool press against the back of his head where most of his pain is located, and it stings just a little, but not enough to be anything more than reassuring.  He's still alive enough to feel the sting of rubbing alcohol, after all.  He'll take what he can get.

            He falls asleep at some point, waking up hours later in the dark, the light on in the bathroom and Cecil's shape pacing from side to side within it.  The shower is running, but still Carlos can hear his voice, even if he can't quite make out all the words.  He thinks he hears his name a few times.

            When he wakes up again, it's still dark, and Cecil is sitting on the other side of the bed, back propped against the wall and legs crossed, playing _Angry Birds_ on his phone.  Carlos can't help but smile at that, because it's just one more normal thing about the sharp-toothed radio host that he'd never have expected before this.

            "You can probably think again," Cecil says, as though he'd known exactly when Carlos would be up, "If you start feeling a migraine come on, though, put on some daytime television until the pain subsides."

            "Where are we?" Carlos asks, now more aware of his situation, and definitely more aware of the fact that Cecil had admitted that this isn't _his_ place.

            "Uh..."

            Cecil launches a bird into a dozen boxes on his screen, then sighs and puts his phone away.  He looks over at Carlos in the gloom, his horn rim glasses making his eyes look bigger and more intense.  Carlos has never figured out what color they were.  He's not sure it even has a name.  "It's just a place," he says finally, shrugging his shoulders.  "I borrow it, sometimes.  Ummm, you know.  When I want to be alone.  _Really_ alone," he adds, his breezy tone still able to give emphasis to the words.  "Since this is your first run in with the secret police, well...  I thought you'd appreciate it."  He slumps against the wall, coincidentally coming closer to Carlos without actually breaking anyone's personal bubble. "It's pretty charming, huh?"

            "Yeah," Carlos says, "Sure."

            Silence stretches between them.  Cecil doesn't look at Carlos.  Carlos can't seem to take his eyes away.  There's something about Cecil that sits so very wrong with him, and now he's starting to wonder if that something might sit wrong with the police in this town, too.

            "Who _are_ you?" Carlos finally asks.

            "Don't be silly, Carlos," Cecil replies, "You know who I am - I _know_ I've introduced myself, and I _know_ you know my name..."

            "No, I mean..."

            But he doesn't know _what_ he means.  He doesn't think he knew before the secret police got to him, and he's pretty sure he doesn't know now, either.  Cecil stares at him with unassuming eyes and unassuming features - save for those sharp teeth of his, and the peculiar tattoo on his forehead, or maybe it's a scar? - and Carlos _knows_ there's something more there.  He just can't place his finger on it.

            "You can feel pain, Carlos," Cecil says, and his voice is serious, almost pitying.  It's irritating, the way a too-tight shirt is, and he shifts restlessly at the sound of it.  "And you've got to remember that, you _really do_.  There aren't a lot of ways out of the mess you've put yourself in, but trust me when I say that forgetting that you can be hurt is the _worst_ option you could take.  Follow the speed limit."

            "I didn't get taken in for _speeding_ ," Carlos grinds out, trying to sit up.  Cecil pushes him back down, staring at him.  "I _didn't_ , do you really think this is for _speeding_?"

            "Of course not," Cecil replies, and his voice comes out sharp.  "I'm not _stupid_ , you know."

            "I never-"

            " _Follow the speed limit,_ Carlos," Cecil says again, quieter and with more urgency, "Stop at the stop signs.  Eat at Big Rico's once a week.  Don't investigate the dog park."

            Carlos feels his body go cold, the words _dog park_ echoing in his brain, _don't investigate the dog park, the dog park, **dog park**_ **-**

            "Carlos," Cecil says, and he's holding him again, hovering above him on his knees while Carlos pants and gulps down air on his side.  "I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry!  Just..."

            "That's it," Carlos whispers.  "Oh, _God_ , that's what it was."

            "Y-eah," Cecil says, the picture of embarrassment.  "I shouldn't have done that.  I just - sometimes, I don't think you really _listen_ to me, Carlos, and I think that I need to be more direct, and then, _bam_!  Grand mal seizure.  Really puts a damper on things, let me tell you."

            "You don't _need_ to tell me," Carlos mumbles into the pillow, turning his head away from Cecil.  "How did you know?"

            "I get a police statement delivered to me every time someone tries to do... well, _anything_ , so, you know.  I get them a lot."

            "Oh."

            Cecil uncrosses, then crosses his legs again, and says, "Either way, probably best not to think about much of anything for a couple more hours.  I can't think of a better way to stop thinking than to pass out, either, so you should really get some sleep!"

            There's a moment between Cecil climbing off the bed and Carlos realizing it's happening, but as soon as he does he says, "Wait," and only feels a little mortified at how eager Cecil is to stop everything he's doing, frozen in a cartoonish pose of being half-on and half-off the bed.  "You're the radio host," he hears himself say, his voice already slurring but his brain unable to focus on anything enough to put it to sleep.  "You should know better than anyone.  I need to listen to something."

            "So you... want me to stay?"

            "To talk," Carlos clarifies, hearing that eagerness in Cecil's tone.  The last thing he wants is for someone like Cecil to get the wrong idea about all this.  "Not to - I'm not, I mean -"

            "Think no more," Cecil says, and though his voice is confident and puts Carlos at ease immediately, he can't help but hear something nostalgic in there.  "I can't help myself but fawn over you, Carlos," he continues, settling on the bed slowly, like he's expecting to be reacted to, but Carlos is too tired to do anything any more.  "You're a breath of fresh air for us all.  Even if I worry about you.  Maybe too much," he says as though he _knows_ it's too much, but doesn't actually care, "But if _I_ don't worry about you, nobody will.  So, relax.  Just relax, breathe, and think about things that make you happy."

            There's a hum in the air, a static-electric charge that creeps through the sheets.  Cecil's voice is soft, deep, melting into every cracked crevice of Carlos's exterior.  "What makes you happy, Carlos?  Is it home?  Is it the idea that you still have a home to go to?  Is it wheatgrass?  Apple pie in the summer, a cold beer on a hot day, bright blue skies?  A void full of stars, hiding itself from you, making you wonder instead of fear?  Barbeques, friends, friends who won't leave you?  The lingering sense of normalcy you came with that you are going to hold on to, no matter what Night Vale says?  You'll always dream of that normal home and the cold beer and the hot dogs and sterilized labs.  Are those things what make you happy?"

            Carlos doesn't expect to respond.  He thinks that everything Cecil's said sound good - great, even - and he doesn't think he'll open his mouth to say, "It's rain," until he actually does it.  "Monsoon season.  I like that more than... any of those other things."

            "And that's what makes you happy," Cecil breathes, and Carlos looks up at him to see something flickering on his face - though maybe too high for his face, maybe nearer his tattoo than anything - and his eyes look blank and blurry in the dark until he blinks and looks down at Carlos in return.  He looks awestruck, and that makes his stomach knot in something near anxiousness.  "The desert's first rain, when flash flood warnings go up, when everything is hot and muggy but the rain falls warm, and it's hard not to just go outside and stand in it.  Oh, _Carlos_ , that is such a thing to be _happy_ about."

            "Glad you like it," Carlos mumbles, and he can't help but grin a bit despite the ache in his entire face.  It's stupid to just "like weather" and he knows it, but Cecil doesn't even seem to care.  He just seems happy to learn something about him.  He should do something about that, he knows, but it's too late to stop it now, and he's too tired to face a conversation about overzealous, obsessive fan behavior.

            "Of course I like it," he says, "Who wouldn't?  Rain - _gosh._   You are something to behold."

            "Not really," he says, and then, because he can't stop himself, "Can we be friends for a while before you idolize me, maybe?  No offense, but it's kind of creepy."

            Cecil stares hard at Carlos, who loses interest in the staring contest relatively quickly.  The air feels charged for just a moment before Cecil huffs and says, "Of _course_ we can be.  I'm certainly not your acquaintance after _this_ , I think."

            "No," Carlos agrees, quietly.  "I suppose not."

            "Exactly."  And then, because Cecil is either good at reading people or he's psychic, he asks, "Would you like me to talk about rain some more?"

            "Yeah," Carlos breathes.  "I'd like that."

            So, Cecil tells him about rain.  He tells him about Tó Neinilii, Chaac, Indra, Ba'al - he talks about flash floods and mentions arks, but only derisively, before talking about the electric stench summer storms leave in the air, and the way clouds cover the void and hide it, just for a while, from terrified but curious eyes.  Carlos rides the steady flow of his voice through it all, fading out and coming in at random points, until at one point, he wakes to sun coming in under the blinds and Cecil in the bathroom, running the shower again and talking on the phone.

            "I've got it," he says, and then he hangs up.  Carlos can't feel much pain any more - his arm is sore but mobile, and his face feels puffy but it doesn't burn with every touch.  He doesn't question _when_ Cecil could possibly have set his arm; it seems like a question best forgotten completely.  Cecil comes out and wags a finger at him as he's gently prodding his various wounds, especially the bruising around his eye.  "Don't _touch_ it!  You've got quite the shiner, you know, don't go making it worse.  If I were someone else, I would _definitely_ let the secret police have it for bruising that perfect profile of yours."

            "Friends, Cecil," Carlos says as he sits up, blearily reaching for his glasses, which are on the bedside table as though he'd put them there himself, "Don't call each other perfect all the time."

            "Fine, fine," Cecil mutters, sounding petulant for only a moment before brightening.  "You should be able to go about your normal business now, anyway.  I have something for your eye and your nose - got a bit of a fat lip, too, I think, but it's okay, really - and as for your hair..."

            "My hair?"

            Carlos reaches up to touch the back of his head and winces as he feels the close shave he's acquired, a strip down the center back.  He doesn't think he could brush his hair over it, it would look too awkward, and what if people saw?

            "Exactly," Cecil says, and he looks honestly and truly mournful.  "You could leave it, but... well, there are the two spots on either side of your head, and..."

            "What?"

            His hair had never been too big of a deal for him before - it's just hair, after all, and most of the time he forgets to take care of it until it gets into his eyes - but as he feels the bald spots right above his ears, he can't help but feel violated.  It's stupid, that his hair is what's reminding him that these past twenty-four hours have been a violation of every personal freedom he's ever thought he had, but that's what does it.  So, he just sits here, feeling the bald spots across his head, until Cecil crouches in front of him.

            "I have it all figured out, all right?  All I need is a little trust, Carlos, and I can make your life a lot easier here in Night Vale.  Okay?"

            "Are you for real?" Carlos moans quietly, "I don't even have any other Night Vale contacts - of course I trust you."

            Cecil's face lights up at that, and he smiles wide.  "Great!  Then..."  His face falls, and he gestures to the bathroom.  "This way."

            Cecil ends up shaving most of his head.  He looks like he wants to cry as he does it, from what Carlos can see in the mirror, but he does it anyway.  He explains as he goes, saying things like, "People will take this better," and, "Don't need to let anyone know about why, right?" and, Carlos's least favorite, "How do you feel about staying inside for a week or two while your hair grows?"

            "Why cut it at all," Carlos mutters, but Cecil shushes him.

            "Don't worry.  It's a... it's a necessary evil."

            It's an even shave, and Cecil keeps as much long hair as possible, making the two hairless dents at his temples look less severe.  He can see small scarring, and he promptly decides to forget about it.

            "It's all going to make sense later," Cecil says, still looking mournful as he sweeps thick locks of hair up and dumps them into the trash can.  "A bad haircut is easier to forgive than being singled out by the police."

            "Is that what this is?" Carlos asks, rubbing his close-cut hair, "A bad haircut?"

            It looks pretty even to Carlos, but even so, Cecil glowers at him.  "What else would it be, cutting off that gorgeous hair?"

            "Cecil..."

            "Just trust me.  It's a terrible, awful haircut - don't get me wrong, you have the perfect cranium for the shaved look, it just doesn't fit you - and that's exactly what you need right now."

            "Because it's easier to forgive."

            "Exactly.  Trust me."

            Carlos thinks it's goddamned insane, but he does trust Cecil.  He says as much, even if it just makes Cecil stammer and knock his head into the counter before awkwardly retreating under the guise of getting them something to eat.  Carlos isn't particularly hungry, but he knows he has to try.  He rubs his head again, then sighs and decides that, yeah, he'd rather people think he got a terrible haircut than kidnapped and tortured by secret police.  The way Cecil had talked about it, Night Vale doesn't look to have a very forgiving public eye, and a scandal would probably ostracize him.  Or worse, knowing this mad little town and how it generally reacts to things that are dangerous, or what they're told is dangerous.

            Cecil comes back with egg McMuffins.  Carlos _almost_ asks how he got McDonald's that fast, but he catches himself at the last minute - it's better to just go with it, he thinks.  Night Vale has no adjustment period, it seems, and so he needs to work double-time to catch up to everyone else.

            "I called your lab," Cecil says, earning a startled glance from Carlos.  God only knows how that went down - the scientists he's come here with have been feeling increasingly less enthusiastic about staying in Night Vale, and Cecil is the most exuberant personification of the town that there is.  "Just to see if your car was still there.  Sometimes, it'll get towed.  I told them I was the Fire Marshall," he adds, as though Carlos's increasing skepticism is showing on his face.  "They bought it.  Which is silly, right?  Doesn't the sheriff take care of traffic violations in every other town?"

            He sounds honestly bemused, and Carlos hides an exasperated smile in his breakfast sandwich.  "Yeah, it is.  They just know that Night Vale is different; probably thought that was just one more thing.  Thanks for the food."

            "Not at all, Carlos," Cecil replies cheerfully, unwrapping his sandwich and taking a bite.  Something rust-red colored wells up and drips a little from the bottom; Carlos decides that it's definitely, completely, most likely ketchup, so further investigation isn't needed.  Not right now.  Maybe later, he'll ask Cecil about his teeth, find out if it's biological or cosmetic - maybe find out about that scar of a tattoo on his forehead, time his blinks, that sort of thing.  It'd be interesting.  He'll just ignore the blood-like ketchup and sharp teeth and just focus on his own self for the time being.

            He knows he won't do it, though, mostly because he wouldn't want to lead Cecil on and maybe a little bit because he's certain he doesn't really want to look too closely at Cecil.  He probably changes under observation, anyway.

            "You must be feeling better, thinking away like that," Cecil says, and Carlos looks to him as he chews thoughtfully.  "I need to make sure, though.  You'll remember what I told you, right?  About obeying traffic laws and, you know.  That kind of thing."

            Carlos nods and polishes off the sandwich, wiping at his mouth with his hand.  "Yeah, I will.  I'll take this more seriously."

            "Good."

            When Cecil stares, sometimes it seems as though he forgets to blink.  Carlos tries to avoid his gaze as best as possible when that happens, and so he finds himself staring at his shoes as Cecil looks at him, unblinking, almost unmoving, for a long minute.  Finally, he says, "The staring is creepy, too."

            "Oh!"  There's a sudden bout of movement as Cecil abruptly straightens up from leaning against the wall, his face the picture of embarrassment.  "How embarrassing.  I just can't help it.  Sorry!"

            "Just... try not to do that, so much, okay?"

            Cecil purses his lips briefly before nodding, and it's the least amount of fight that could be expected.  There's not even so much as a huff.  "Of course, you're right.  Sorry again, Carlos!  I'll try to, umm.  Rein it in.  _Any_ way, we should get you home!  I have work, and I'm sure you have a lot of things to sort out."

            "Yeah."  Carlos rubs gently at his chin, avoiding the bruised part of his jaw.  "Yeah, I need to get back to the lab."

            "Uh-huh."  Cecil leaves the bedroom and Carlos follows, finding nothing else in the apartment to make him think it's any more lived in than Cecil implied.  It's practically empty, save for a couch, a cupboard, and an old folding table set up near the kitchenette.  Carlos realizes with a sudden twist in his stomach that this is a safe house.  It's not just _some place_ , like Cecil wants to insist it is - it's a safe house, a place that's probably checked for bugs on every visit.  He wonders if there are any.

            "There is one," Cecil says abruptly, pointing to a worn fan set on the ground near the window.  It's clicking quietly as it pushes air through its blades, the oscillation stuck just in between on and off.  "But it's not a big deal."

            Carlos wants to ask how Cecil knew that was what he was thinking.  He wants to know if he's psychic, or if Carlos has suddenly taken up thinking aloud without realizing it, but...  Asking a question like that in Night Vale is starting to feel like a useless endeavor, one that'll only bring him scorn and those slow, pitiful head shakes that come with asking stupid questions.

            So he doesn't.  Cecil doesn't tell him the answers to his questions, either, so he thinks he can rule out telepathy.

            The door has two locks, though Carlos can't see how Cecil undoes one of them - it just looks like a charred spot above the door knob - and it strikes him as surprisingly paranoid for someone who follows along with police procedure.

            "Most of the time, at least," Carlos mumbles, and Cecil just smiles at him.  Maybe like he knows what Carlos is talking about.  Maybe like he doesn't, and just automatically smiles when he hears Carlos speak.

            The drive to the laboratory is almost identical to their previous ride; it's quiet, the radio's off, and Cecil keeps a close eye on his speed.  He stops at all stoplights and hums occasionally, as though he has a song stuck in his head, but he can't remember the beat.

            He breezes through a stop sign, and Carlos straightens up immediately.  "That was a stop," he says, trying not to sound urgent, but if Cecil is breaking the law then that means something's wrong.  Right?

            "I have immunity," Cecil says cheerfully.

            "Immunity," Carlos repeats, and then he remembers hearing Cecil's voice on the radio mentioning it.  _"Collect five stamps, and you get stop sign immunity for one year."_   Inform the secret police enough, and you get to break the law.  Carlos's gut twists again, enough that he feels the back of his throat burn with acid.  "Oh."

            "Mmhmm," Cecil says, as though it's no big deal that he has a safe house and five stamps on his Alert Citizen Card.  As if it's no big deal that he's bouncing between law-abiding and law-breaking on what Carlos assumes is a regular basis.  And then, more seriously, he says, "Maybe you should start working on your own immunity."

            Carlos doesn't reply; he leans his forehead against the window and stares at the passing landmarks without taking them in.  He's not trying to remember where he's coming from.  He doesn't _want_ to.  Like a highway, the silence stretches on in front of them, tedious and awkward as any quiet car ride can make it, but at least it's not what's behind them that he has to worry about right now.

            "What you said, earlier," Cecil starts, unease sounding foreign on his usually confident tongue.  "About idealization.  And creepiness."  He stops, his lips pursed, and so Carlos nods against the window.

            "Yeah," he prompts, without taking any of it back, because it's _true_.  Cecil tries to continue, but he winds up tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel and fixing his eyes on the road, instead of darting to glance at Carlos.  "What about it, Cecil?"

            "Just... things in Night Vale - they work at a different speed than in other places.  And, for a moment, assume... assume you'd disappeared, instead of being let go.  The secret police take... a lot of people."  His hands twist on the wheel briefly.  "It's normal, here.  Along with all sorts of things, you know?  For instance - have you been to the public library yet?"

            "No," Carlos admits hesitantly, "There aren't any doors."

            "Well, of course, otherwise, the librarians would - but, you don't understand that.  Bad example."  He tuts, then says, "This is really unimportant, but it's - it _is_ important, that you know.  Any variety of things can kill us, Carlos.  We are just meat and bone and blood, kept alive by a fist-sized bundle of muscle and rubbery gray brain matter.  Anything can kill any of us, at any time, _anywhere_."  He glances at Carlos, then away, and then back again as they pull into the parking lot of the laboratory.  He doesn't put his car in park, though; he keeps it in drive with his foot on the pedal, keeping the doors locked, like he needs to make sure Carlos won't leave.  For his part, Carlos doesn't so much as remove his seatbelt; he just sits and looks at Cecil, waiting for whatever bombshell he wants to drop now, waiting for the flowery prose and the whimsical horrors he'll be bringing to life.

            "Some things have to be quicker," is what Cecil says.  "So we don't miss them before they're gone."

            He puts the car into park and leans back in his seat, slumping into it as he looks to Carlos for a reaction.  He looks unsure of himself, unsure of his words, but Carlos understands it.  People disappear and die every day in Night Vale, and from what Carlos can tell, it's at a rate much higher than the national average.  Cecil's licking his lips, now actually _worried_ , because he must think Carlos doesn't get it.  But he does.  There's just one thing that Cecil is forgetting - _him_.

            "I'm not planning on going anywhere," Carlos says.  He raises an eyebrow.  "Are you?"

            "Well, of _course_ not, but-"

            "Then why don't you try it _my_ way, just for this, and take it slow."

            Cecil's eyebrows do an inappropriate amount of moving as he tries to figure out Carlos's meaning.  Honestly, all he means is to get Cecil to stop talking about him on the radio, and maybe have him stop gushing over him on the phone or in person as well.  He meant it when he said it was creepy, and it's still going to be creepy, even after this.  But - well.  Creepy is the new normal, apparently.

            "I meant what I said about being friends," Carlos adds, in case that's an issue here.  Cecil just nods, looking almost as though he's been pulled out of a stupor.

            "Okay," he says, nodding once.  He twists his hands on the steering wheel, then nods again.  "Sure.  Why not?  I like trying new things."

            "Government sanctioned new things," Carlos jokes, and he's a little surprised at the grin that spreads over Cecil's face.  It's more sly than jovial, but it fits his face just as easily.

            "And some that might be in a grayish type area."  He taps the clock on the dashboard.  "Time to go to work.  I have a lot to do."

            "Oh.  Yeah, I know."  Carlos unbuckles his seat belt and opens the door, putting his feet on the ground and wondering at how steady it feels, given that the earth should be buckling beneath them.

            "Will you be listening?" Cecil asks.

            "After I take a hot shower and explain why I look like I got jumped," he replies, deciding to be charitable.  Cecil won't know either way, but...  It'd be reassuring to hear Cecil talking.  Besides, it makes for good background noise.

            "Great!"

            Carlos almost lets it go at that, climbing out of the car and grabbing the door as if to close it, but at the last moment he leans in and says, "And thanks.  For - you know.  Everything."

            "Anything to help the scientific community," Cecil replies, probably only being partially sarcastic.  Carlos shrugs, closes the door, and waits until Cecil clears the parking lot before going inside.

            It takes too long to give his coworkers an explanation, and he has to be careful about thinking about certain trigger words - for now, at least.  He'll try again later, when he's not standing under the hot water of his thankfully normal shower.  He has the radio on in the bathroom, tuned into Cecil's show, and mostly he doesn't listen; he just takes in the sound of Cecil's voice and the music he plays between segments, short instrumentals that are probably mostly filler anyway.

            And then, Cecil mentions his name.  And then his hair.  And then his hair being cut, _shorn_ off his scalp by some man Carlos has never even heard of.  _Telly_ , Cecil's voice says, and for a moment it fills Carlos with anger, though he's not sure who it's supposed to be directed at.  _Telly the barber seems to be the one who betrayed our community_ , Cecil growls. _Telly the barber._

            And that's how it happens.  Carlos knows, as sure as he knows the world is round, that Cecil is destroying someone's life to help him.  The way he says the name is enough to prove that.  He's doing it because Carlos can't be seen for a while, and when he does come back, when the scabbing marks on his head have scarred over and his hair grows out, nobody will think about him being kidnapped by the police.  They'll just think, _Telly_ , and feel irritated and angry - not that they need an excuse, because Night Vale citizens are especially prone to lashing out - but not at him.

            The water feels ice cold for a second, then turns hot again.  Carlos barely notices.  Muffled through the shower curtain and the water, Cecil moves on to the traffic, and Carlos returns to scrubbing desert sand off his skin, and the only thing that's certain in that moment is that Cecil is on Carlos's side.  What might happen in the future remains a mystery, though, and Carlos can only hope that things remain the same, because he certainly doesn't want to be in Telly's shoes right now.


End file.
